Don Winslow - Satori

The other diners noticed the very Western, very un-Chinese, directness of this standoff, and Chen, seated to Nicholai’s left, was relieved when the waiters broke the tension by arriving with a platter of fried pig’s livers wrapped in iris blossoms.

But Voroshenin would not let it go. “The French have some colonies in Asia, I’m given to understand.”

Nicholai agreed. “French Indochina, to be precise.”

“Well, precision is important.”

“Precisely.”

“Although,” Voroshenin said, testing the waters, “I don’t know how much longer the French can hold on to, say, Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh is kicking the traces, isn’t he?”

“It’s a matter of time,” Yu said.

“And arms,” Voroshenin opined. “Wouldn’t you say, as a military man, that the Viet Minh insurgency can’t progress to the next phase of the struggle without a reliable supply of modern weaponry? I mean, they really can’t stand up to French firepower with what they have now, especially with the Americans arming the French.”

“To succeed,” Yu answered as he looked over the platter, “every insurgency must make the transition from guerrilla to conventional warfare. Our beloved Chairman taught us that.”

He pinched a piece of the liver and transferred it to Nicholai’s plate.

“But,” Voroshenin pressed, “it can’t be done without guns.”

“No,” Yu said simply. “It can’t.”

“And what brings you to Beijing?” Voroshenin asked Nicholai, supposedly switching subjects but fully aware of what he was doing.

“Business,” Nicholai answered.

“Agricultural equipment?” Voroshenin asked with faux innocence. “Irrigation systems, that sort of thing? In the face of the American embargo? Good for you, Comrade. But, damn, you look familiar, Michel. Something in the eyes. Have you ever been to Russia?”

Nicholai saw the man’s eyes scanning for a reaction. He knew that he was being baited, knew that Voroshenin was trying to assess him. But why? Nicholai wondered. Could he have an inkling, could there have been a leak? Could Voroshenin know the real reason for my being in Beijing?

“No,” Nicholai answered. “Have you ever been to Montpellier?”

“The one in France?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t there,” Voroshenin answered. He rudely stared at Nicholai for another moment, then said, “No offense, but I once knew a woman, in Leningrad, with eyes like yours. She… well, we’re all comrades here, right? Friends?”

He was met with silence, Nicholai noted, but despite the well-known Chinese reticence about public discussions of sexuality, Voroshenin continued. “She was a tiger in the sheets. I had her every which way, if you know what I mean.”

The slight laughter was forced, the moment horribly awkward. Voroshenin must be very confident in his power, Nicholai thought, to so brazenly offend his hosts’ sensibilities. Certainly he knew better – he just didn’t seem to care, as evidenced by the self-satisfied leer that lingered on his face.

And his vulgar reference to my mother? Nicholai wondered. A shot in the dark, or does he know? And is testing me?

A part of Nicholai wanted to do it now. It would be easy, a simple matter of thrusting a chopstick through his eye and into his brain. Done in a flash, before Voroshenin’s thugs, lurking like dogs along the wall, could do anything but confirm their boss’s death.

But that would be suicide.

So he met Voroshenin’s gaze, smiled, and asked, “Can you keep a secret, Comrade Voroshenin?”

Voroshenin smiled in return. “I was born for it.”

Nicholai leaned slightly toward him and held his eye as he said, “I’m here to do a killing.”

Chen gasped.

Nicholai laughed and said, “I’m sorry. My Mandarin, it’s rusty. What I meant to say, of course, is that I’m here to make a killing.”

The diners laughed, then Voroshenin, his face reddening, said, “That’s still a brave remark to make at a table full of Communists, mon ami.”

“I am what I believe you call a ‘useful capitalist,’ “Nicholai answered. Voroshenin’s eyes had provided no answer as to the state of the man’s knowledge. Certainly he had been insulted, and flushed with anger, but then he seemed equally relieved when Nicholai explained his grammatical “error.”

“That’s the expression,” Yu said. “Now, enough talk of business at the table. We are being terrible hosts, interrogating our guest. We should show brotherly hospitality. So, what in Beijing would you like to see, Comrade Guibert?”

Nicholai named the expected – the Temple of Heaven, the Forbidden City, perhaps an excursion to the Great Wall. Then he decided it was time to push a line of stones forward, into Voroshenin’s part of the board. After all, the Russian had come this far toward him, it was only polite to return the gesture.

“And opera,” Nicholai added, careful to look at Yu and not Voroshenin. “I would very much like, if possible, to attend a real Beijing opera.”

“Are you a devotee of jingju ?” Voroshenin asked, his interest piqued.

“I try,” Nicholai answered, in his mind’s eye seeing the opponent’s white stones moving into place. I studied the file on you, you total bastard. I know who you are. “It’s difficult in Hong Kong, as you know. Impossible in France, as you might guess. But yes, I’m a fan.”

“I’m going this week,” Voroshenin said. “I’d be honored if you would accompany me.”

“Really?” Nicholai asked. “That’s very kind. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all,” Voroshenin assured him. “I’m going anyway – The Dream of the West Chamber at the Zhengyici. And Xun Huisheng himself is singing the huadan , the ‘Red Maid’ role.”

“I’ve always wanted to hear him,” Nicholai said.

Yu said, “Catch him while you can. The party doesn’t approve of men playing women on the stage. It is effete and unnatural. We shall soon be putting an end to this anachronistic practice.”

“But Xun is sublime,” Voroshenin argued.

“These old operas are a waste of time,” Yu sniffed. “Ancient fairy tales and romantic fables of the old ruling class. The jingju should be utilized for social purposes, for propaganda and education.”

“Madame Mao is an enthusiast,” Voroshenin argued.

“Of course,” Yu countered, “and we are given to understand that she is even now writing new operas that will instruct the people in socialist principles.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Voroshenin said dryly. He turned back to Nicholai. “If you’d like to attend, I have a private box.”

If your opponent is of a choleric nature, he will be unable to restrain himself. He will seek you out, and show you the open gate to his vulnerability.

Let your enemy come to you.

“I accept,” Nicholai answered. “With pleasure.”

It’s a date, a rendezvous, he thought.

The waiters brought out a new platter, set it in the middle of the table, and Nicholai saw that Chen was looking at him for a reaction. Not to disappoint, Nicholai asked, “What is this?”

“Yang shuang chang ,” Chen said, then clarified, “goat’s intestine filled with blood. A delicacy.”

Yu and Chen watched for his response.

Nicholai knew that the dinner was not only a ritual, but a test – of his manners, his language skills, his temperament. It was also a time-honored ploy, to lull a business associate with massive amounts of food and drink to dull his mind, move the blood from his brain into digesting the food.

He was also aware that the selection of dishes was also a measure of his attitudes. For so long insulted by Western condescension and cultural arrogance, the Chinese wanted to see if he would meet them on their own terms. If not, it could very well end the business deal that was the cover for his mission.